Better Than Yourself
by Rooty
Summary: Republic Commando Delta Squad are sent to capture a highranking Trade Federation executive, and Fixer learns that sometimes being the best just isn't good enough.


The only light Fixer had was coming from his helmet's small tactical spot-light, which – locked on minimum power and shroud setting, so as to avoid detection – cast a beam of light barely strong enough to light the wall barely a hand span away. Fixer had been chimneying up the narrow, damp shaft for exactly three hours twenty seven minutes now, timed to perfection on his helmet's precision chrono, and it had been nearly two of those hours since he'd heard a report from any of his squad members. Of course, it had been even longer than that since Fixer had last made a report of his own.

His helmet's tactical display showed him the status of his three squad mates – close as brothers and genetically identical to him. Genetically identical to Jango Fett, the notorious bounty hunter who had donated his genes to the Grand Army of the Republic. _One man, but the right man for the job_, the rallying cry went. Of course, if anyone were to question the individuality or the humanity of the clones, a meeting with Delta Squad would soon allay those fears. 

The squad's leader was Delta-38, or "Boss" to most of the Deltas. That was, all the Deltas except Fixer. Boss was a hard warrior, always calm when under fire and always making the right decisions. He was a good leader.

Delta-07 was Sev, a cold, efficient murderer who often served as the squad's sniper. No, it wasn't murder, murder's for petty criminals and the like. Oh-seven was just doing his job, just doing his life, what he'd been bred to do. It's not murder when it's something as grand as the Republic you're saving. 

The squad's demolitions expert – and pyromaniac – was the aptly named Scorch, or Delta-62 as Fixer referred to him as. He couldn't be doing with all these nicknames – he liked things by the book. Straight. Which was probably the reason, he reflected, why Six-two rubbed him the wrong way ninety five percent of the time. Six-two was a joker, often following up a rocket blast or demo charge explosion with some inane wisecrack.

Fixer was the squad's final member. Born RC-1140, Fixer was the squad's unofficial second-in-command, and would have made a fine leader himself – he was serious, by-the-book, and didn't make nor tolerate mistakes. Fixer's nickname came from his skill with technology, and he was the squad's computer man. 

But at the minute, there were no computers in sight. Just the long climb up, the damp and the cold, clammy air, the tiny droplets of water that plummeted through the shaft and slid their way down his dull white armour and soaked his bodysuit, pooling at the elbows and knees, making it more of a struggle than a chore to scale the shaft.

A low voice rumbled in his ear, tinny through his helmet's speaker, Three-eight making a report. Obviously the thick walls surrounding him and the distance between him and Boss weren't good for transmission strength. As the squad's CO spoke, Fixer fiddled with a small dial hidden on his helmet, boosting the signal strength enough to get a clear transmission.

"…am in position, visual on eight clankers and twelve organics, mostly scalies. They're guarding the target. Intel said there's at least fifteen organics, so that makes three unaccounted for, maybe patrolling. Keep an eye open."

A few tense seconds passed, and then another voice cut into the transmission, echoing within Fixer's head and helmet. The voice had a rattling, singsong quality – Six-two.

"I'm just getting there now, Boss. Smells nice, doesn't it? Yeuck, what have they been eating?"

"Can it, Six-two," spat Fixer, reflexively.

"Well, sorry…" grumbled Scorch. "Just wait until you're up…"

Even Boss was growing irate. "Fixer, where are you?" he asked, drowning out Scorch's moaning. "Sev, you too. I want positions." 

Sev's voice was guttural and low, all rough and gravelley like a predator. "I've reached the rafters. Perfect snipe positions, everywhere. This'll be fun."

Fixer's turn. "I'm still in the shaft, but I think I must be somewhere near the top. Any idea where I'm going to come out?" 

"No," admitted Boss, "Intelligence was very sketchy. You'll be in the building, but more than that we don't know." 

"Blasted Null ARCs," commented Scorch. "Whose idea was it to put Clone Intelligence under the command of the loon who trained those crackpot Omegas, anyw…" 

"Six-two, neg that comm chatter. It'll only take one signal trace and they'll know we're here."

"Oh. Hi, scalie, if you're listening. Was nice killing you…" A burst of static replaced Scorch's idle rant. Fixer suddenly froze – he'd only been trying to scare Scorch with the signal trace thing, it'd take one hell of a jammer to crack the encryption code used by Republic Commandos, surely they hadn't heard him and shot him… 

"Is Six-two okay? Boss, what's going on up there?" 

"Oh, he'll be fine. I just cut his outgoing helmet comm." 

An involuntary, but thankfully inaudible sigh of relief escaped Fixer. "Someone should have done that a _lot_ earlier. I'll comm you when I'm in position. Four-oh, out."

Fixer made the rest of the climb in silence, rolling himself out of the shaft and onto his back. Before he could pull himself up to his feet, he felt a heavy, clawed weight on his chest. It was a foot, and attached to that foot was nearly two meters of scaled, salivating Trandoshan. It snarled down at him from between sharp, jagged teeth, a disgusted scowl twisted across its reptilian face.

"Yeah, pleased to meet you too," spat Fixer, grabbing the Trandoshan's ankle and tipping him to the ground, hard, using the momentum to wrench himself up onto his feet. Scrambling for his Deece, Fixer unlocked the rifle's safety and brought the gun to bear on the scaly mass on the ground. The Trandoshan was up by now, though, and before Fixer could fire it had its scaly forearms locked around the DC-17/m in a grim hug, trying to wrench the gun away from Fixer's grasp. Struggling with the Trandoshan like a child fighting over a toy – a child that Fixer had never been, bred for war and still only eleven years old –, Fixer tried to get his gauntlet-vibroblade into range of the Trandoshan's head, without sacrificing his hold on the weapon, but the scalie just _wasn't letting go_, not even after a particularly vicious head butt that left Fixer partially dazed.

Beyond the ringing in his ears, Fixer could hear two sets of plodding footsteps, heading towards his position. _Here comes the cavalry_, thought Fixer, _at least this means all mercs are accounted for now. But when they get in here, they'll just shoot me and be done with it…_

It was time for drastic action, and Fixer knew exactly what he had to do. It was a sign of how desperate things were that he carried out his impromptu plan, however. What Fixer was about to do went against everything Fixer was and did and stood for. Fixer was by-the-book. He'd follow the manual through to the end. He wouldn't take risks; he'd do things the long, safe way. Fixer was _sensible_. Fixer did things the sensible way.

Fixer let go of his gun.

The Trandoshan went staggering backwards, tripping over the lip of the shaft and plummeting down with a wet scream. Not pausing to mourn his lost weapon, he launched himself at the door, gauntlet blade first, spearing the Wroonian merc who rounded the corner, tearing the shock cannon from its limp hands and firing an explosive blast of electricity into the chest of the second merc, another Trandoshan. The Wroonian was still on the ground, moaning, and Fixer blasted him, too, throwing the bulky shock cannon onto the mess. The Trandoshan he'd shot had been armed with an APC repeater, and he'd much rather be armed with the light, powerful rifle than the Wroonian's massive, cumbersome electricity shock cannon. Throwing the dead Trando's ammo bandolier over his green-striped armour, Fixer carried on through the run down corridors, using his tactical helmet display to locate his squad.

He arrived at the situation through a small supply vent, concealing himself in the inky shadows cast by a tower of crates. He gave his brothers a breathless nod – Oh-seven, skulking in the rafters; Six-two, fiddling irritably with his helmet down by the ventilation shaft; Three-eight, lying on his belly on a small overhang, returning the nod with a thumbs-up. The Deltas would have been invisible to Fixer if it weren't for the helmet's tactical display, which marked each of the Deltas position.

In the middle of the room sat a nervous-looking Neimoidian trade representative – the target, Fixer knew – surrounded by eight standard battle droids and eleven mercs, a mix of Trandoshans, Gran and Wroonians – the usual scum.

"I only see eleven organics, Three-eight. Where's number twelve?"

"In the next room, Fix. Prepping the escape ship for take-off."

"Looks like we'll have to act fast, then."

"You bet," grumbled Scorch. Obviously he was back on the comm network. "What's been keeping you, anyway?"

"Ran into some mercs coming out of the shaft. Lost my Deece."

"_Fierfek_, Fixer, you lost your gun?" Scorch let out a short, insane bust of laughter. "That's one for the record books!" 

"Who fixed his helmet, anyway?" grumbled Sev.

Three-eight's usual, comforting voice quelled the argument. "Quiet, Deltas, here's the plan. Command made it _very clear_ that they want the Neimoidian target alive, so we have to get him out of the way before the shooting starts. Sev, I want you to stay up there and take down as many mercs as you can before they work out what's hit them. Scorch, you follow me, we'll draw them away from the target. Fixer, I want you to apprehend the Neimie." 

A chorus of approval sang through the helmet earpiece, and Fixer got ready to dash for the Neimodian. If he could get there fast enough, he'd be able to bundle the Neimoidian safely into a corner before his bodyguards had a chance to react. 

"Deltas, go," ordered Boss, and the training took over. Three lances of energy shot down from the ceiling, like an orbital bombardment, Sev's sniper blasts downing three mercenaries before Fixer had even started his run. Boss and Scorch were pincering the merc formation, drawing them off to one side with leading blasts from the DC-17 rifles.

Charging across the length of the room, Fixer realised that his plan was about to fall flat. Although the mercs had been led away by Six-two and Three-eight, the robotic battle droids had stayed in position, forming a tighter circle around the target. Fixer couldn't simply EMP grenade them, the target looked nervous enough as it was and he didn't want to risk giving him a heart attack. His gun was useless, too – Trandoshan weapons were sloppy, and the droids were too close to the target, hosing them down without hitting him would be impossible. But he was too close to the droids to back out now, any retreat would simply result in them blasting him.

It was going to have to be another fist-fight. Grabbing a droid by the neck, he swung the confused, spindly construction around his head, sweeping through the air and knocking back four more of the flimsy attack droids. Blaster bolts began to rain towards him, zipping off his armour as he barreled towards the remaining three droids, tearing one apart with his wrist-blade, wires and gears and sparks showering everywhere. With Fixer up to his elbow in droid guts, the two droids that were left grabbed the cowering Neimoidian and began dragging him over towards the next room, where his transport awaited. "Sev!" cried Fixer, his voice hoarse, "Snipe them!" He couldn't blast them himself, not with his sloppy APC repeater. 

"Snipe who?" cried Sev, his attention focused on the bloodbath that Boss and Scorch were orchestrating. 

"_Fierfek_, Seven, just blast the droids!" Sev managed to nail one of the droids with a pinpoint shot, but the second one made it through the hatch, the Neimoidian target in tow. A heavy blast door began to close shut, but before he'd even realised this, Fixer was sprinting towards the hatch, sliding low on his side to dodge under the door before it clanged shut.

Faced with a fully prepped and armed Mankvim-814 Techno Union light interceptor, with the tail of a rich-woven Neimoidian cloak disappearing up the boarding ramp, Fixer began to realise that he _might_ have made a mistake.

No. Fixer never makes mistakes. Even losing the gun wasn't a mistake, it was necessary. It was either that or die. Chasing the Neimoidian wasn't a mistake. It was either that or fail the mission. And Delta Squad _never_ fails. 

Faced with a fully prepped and armed Mankvim-814 Techno Union light interceptor, with a greedy Neimoidian – suddenly a lot, lot more confident – wrapping its slimy fingers about the firing controls, Fixer didn't panic. He simply lifted up the APC repeater and began firing an unending stream of energy slugs towards the fighter's armoured hull. The blue sheen of shields let him know that this wasn't going to get him anyway, but he carried on all the same, beginning to circle the floating interceptor, running one step ahead of its tracer fire, dodging explosions and blasts.

And it came to him. The one way he could complete his mission.

It was impossible.

For one terrible, terrible moment, Fixer had his worst fears confirmed – and for Fixer, it was the sort of fear that could cripple a man. The sort of feat that simply to admit to would be tantamount to dying. 

It was the fear that no matter how good you are, no matter how _right_ you do things, no matter if you don't put a single foot out of place, no matter how hard you push yourself, sometimes you just_ aren't_ good enough. Sometimes you _just can't do it_.

You can be your utter best, and still not be good enough. 

Fixer decided to try, anyway. 

He threw himself onto the hull of the Mankvim, scrabbling for purchase against the ship's smooth hull, twisting his body to avoid the ship's two laser cannons, bones jarring and skin searing as his armour's thin, weak shield aura fizzled and crackled against the interceptor's starfighter-class shielding. Resorting to his wrist-blade, Fixer dug the knife along the hull, creating a shallow groove in which he could insert his fingers – just – and pull himself level to the ship's cockpit. The Neimoidian's hungry mask faltered, and his face once again became an expression of pure fear. Also squeezed inside the ship were the B1 escort droid, and the Gran who'd been prepping the ship. As the Gran and the Neimoidian yelled and screamed silently at each other, Fixer took a demo charge from his belt and placed it on the cockpit canopy, securing it in place. Whipping off his helmet and throwing it aside, Fixer mouthed _Get back!_ to the organics inside the ship. They were only too happy to comply, which left Fixer and the B1 droid alone in range of the charge. There wasn't anywhere to retreat to, so Fixer just held on for grim life, gritted his face and blew the explosive.

Transparisteel and ship hull and droid rained about the room, and Fixer – his hair decidedly charred – stepped through the gaping, blazing hole he'd created, stabbing the Gran in the head with his vibro-knife and wrestling the target into an arm lock. A moment later, the hangar blast door blew open, and in stormed the rest of Delta Squad, fanning out to secure the area. 

Scorch let out a low whistle. "Next time you're going to blow something up, call me first, okay?" Satisfied that the combat zone was clear and secure, the Deltas whipped their helmets off – each brandishing an identical face to Fixer's. 

Well, nearly identical. Across Scorch's was spread a huge, malicious grin – he'd just spotted Fixer's discarded helmet. Spinning it around in his hands, sliding his finger across a large carbon score burnt into the helmet, Scorch gave him that oh-so-insufferable grin. "Not had a good day when it comes to equipment, have you, Fix? You know how much these things cost? Oh ho ho, procurement's gonna kill you."


End file.
